


Metropolis

by ilarual (Ilarual)



Category: Young Wizards - Diane Duane
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-19
Updated: 2015-05-19
Packaged: 2018-03-31 08:57:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3971833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ilarual/pseuds/ilarual
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which glasses do not make for a very effective disguise, and ace reporter Dairine Callahan has no patience for secret identities— or caped heroes who aren't held accountable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Metropolis

**Author's Note:**

> Oh look, I've written for YW. And it's for Dairine and Roshaun, too. Not that that's a shock, Dairine has been a source of fascination for me since I was her age, and having spent the last decade (!!) in suspense over the What Happened To Roshaun question, it was only a matter of time before I got around to writing _something_ for them.
> 
> I went with a tongue-in-cheek AU for this first foray, both to ease myself into writing new characters (which is easier to do when I'm setting them in a scenario I've written before back in my DC fandom days), and because AU is really the only setting where I _ship_ ship these two. In canon I read them as... best friends? platonic soul mates? is that the term I'm looking for? I think it is. Yeah. In canon I read them as platonic soul mates, but in AU all bets are off and if I wanna do not!Superman and not!Lois Lane with them, then dammit I will.

The Daily Star, preferred print and electronic news source for the majority of the discerning media consumers in New York and beyond, had offices and correspondents across the globe. The best and brightest of their staff, however, were kept local whenever possible. Tom Swale, long-reigning editor-in-chief of the Star, had a penchant for discovering and nurturing budding young talent. Many a fine journalist had been brought up in the industry under his guidance… and on a certain summer evening, one of his protegés in particular was still on one of the upper floors the Manhattan headquarters, although night had fallen long ago and nearly all of her coworkers had gone home for the day.

As usual, Dairine Callahan, the Daily Star's star reporter, was among the last in the bullpen. She was late in the office so frequently, she had gotten to be on very good terms with the janitors. Her sister and father often complained that they hardly saw her, but in Dairine's opinion, you didn't get to be the best reporter in the business by taking it easy. And tonight, she was burning the midnight oil on a suspicion that if she was patient enough, she was going to land the interview of the century.

She wore her curly red hair tied up in a sensible bun to work most days, held in place by a pair of sparkly pins, but by this time of night, her energy and enthusiasm had once again outstripped her professionalism (and her hairspray), and more than a few flyaways had escaped as a result. Her kitten heels had been abandoned beneath her desk within five minutes of her arrival that morning, but now that the bullpen had mostly cleared out, she considered herself free to pop her feet up on top of her desk, leaning back in her chair and swiveling slightly as she shook out her copy of that morning's paper.

She studied the headline, steely-grey eyes narrowed critically. Emblazoned across the top of the page in bold lettering was the headline,  _THE GUARANTOR: SAVIOR OR MENACE?_

The accompanying article that bore her byline was a piece that would probably have been better suited to the op/ed section, but she had strong-armed Tom into giving her the front page. It would be an effective lure, and she was pleased with that much, at least, but the headline was clumsy.

Oh well. At least the photo Fil had snapped was a decent one. There weren't a whole lot of clear photos of the Guarantor, possibly due to that whole lightspeed thing he had going on. Fil, however, was not exactly your everyday photographer, and he'd gotten the photo that half the editors in the state had been dreaming of for the last six weeks. A real-life superhero putting in regular appearances all across New York City was the news story of the decade, but so far no one had managed to get more than a few blurry pictures of the golden-robed man in flight, let alone an interview. But Fil had snagged the first good picture, and Dairine was determined to get the first interview.

The shot captured the city's new self-appointed guardian in the moment before he took flight. It was a full-color portrait of a handsome face, caught in profile, with vividly– almost inhumanly– green eyes set strikingly against coppery skin and several feet of blond hair. The whole effect was undeniably– and, in Dairine's opinion,  _annoyingly_ – attractive. The expression on that fine-boned face was one of intense focus, not quite stern, but very determined, and it reminded Dairine oddly of an expression she had seen more than once in the mirror.

"It's a little out of focus," a male voice commented from behind her.

Dairine had to exert an exceptional amount of focus of her own not to fall out of her chair in surprise, but she absolutely would not give the man behind her the satisfaction of having caught her unawares.

"Take it up with Fil," she said coolly, removing her feet from her desk and spinning in her chair to face her coworker.

Roshaun K. Nelaid, the Star's latest recruit, was the first person in the last four or five years to make Dairine feel like she might actually have competition in terms of talent. From the minute Tom had dumped the brat into the desk directly across from Dairine, he'd been giving her a run for her money… and, unfortunately, he knew it. Roshaun and his insufferable smugness had managed to crawl so far under Dairine's skin, she suspected she'd need tweezers to remove him. Assuming, of course, that she wanted to; she still needed to gather further data to make up her mind about that.

She ran her eyes over him with a look as appraising as the one she had given her headline.

The junior reporter had, in Dairine's opinion, odd taste in clothes. Admittedly, outside the office she was as likely to be found in sweatpants as not, but at least she knew how to pair a pencil skirt and blouse effectively. Roshaun always showed up to work in tailored slacks and well-cut jackets, and would have looked the consummate professional if it weren't for his habit of pairing this, not with the traditional button-down, but instead with a parade of unlikely t-shirts. She had wondered off and on for the last few weeks if it was just bad taste, or if it was meant to be a diversionary tactic, a ploy to keep people from looking too closely at his face. Either way, the effect was lost on her, and she was left to bemused appreciation of his eclectic collection of screen-printed cotton. Today it was a vintage Princess Leia shirt, which predisposed her to go easy on him for once… but he didn't have to know that.

Despite his bizarre fashion sense, he probably could have passed for some kind of model, with bone structure that would've made a sculptor weep from joy. He wore his fair hair tied back in a ponytail, and thick-framed glasses that weren't fooling anybody (well, apparently they were actually fooling  _everybody_ , but Dairine couldn't see  _how_ ) perched on his very straight nose.

"What I want to know is whether Fil knew what kind of sensationalist nonsense you were going to be pairing his photo with," he said, studying her over the rims of those glasses with a satirical eye.

It was the kind of comment that made Dairine's temper flare up every time. Her prickly responses to him were practically Pavlovian by now, but she had more riding on this particular conversation with her deskmate than the satisfaction of one-upping him– which, in Roshaun's case, actually was  _satisfying_ – so just this once she shut down the urge to snap at him.

She settled for shooting him a dark look instead.

"'Sensationalist nonsense?'" she replied. "I don't think it's  _sensationalist_  to question the motives of a superhuman being who's blatantly thrust himself into the public eye but refuses to stick around to answer any questions once the theatrics are over with."

"It's not if the article in question is printed in the opinions and editorial section," he said, "but on the front page? It's yellow."

The worst thing about Roshaun, Dairine decided, was that he was right infuriatingly often. The fact that he had given voice to what she'd been thinking only a minute before bugged her twice as much as the act of criticism itself. She'd had plenty of critics, but they usually had no idea what they were talking about. Roshaun was not so easy to brush off.

"You could be right," she admitted grudgingly, "But that doesn't change the fact that the Guarantor scares a lot of people, and the public deserves answers."

"Spoken like a true reporter," Roshaun said dryly.

"Oh, and you're  _not_  a true reporter, then?" she said. "Well, at least you're ready to admit you can't handle the pressure."

He glared at her. "That is not what I meant and you know it."

_No_ , she thought, _but it sure was fun to get under your skin for once_. She was on a mission, though, and she needed to stay focused.

"Maybe, maybe not, but the point still stands," she said, "The Guarantor is running around preventing train wrecks and freeway pileups and rescuing little old ladies from burning buildings and stuff, and all that's great, but there's still some… shady elements."

"I don't take your meaning," Roshaun said, brows furrowed.

"I mean that I, for one, am going to suspend judgment on the Guarantor until he's a little more transparent about how and why he operates." Dairine had to bite the inside of her cheek to hide a grin at the expression of outrage that crossed Roshaun's face.

"Are you joking?" he demanded. "I would have thought that  _you_ , at least, would be insightful enough not to fall prey to that sort of fear-mongering!"

Dairine was pretty sure that there was a compliment buried in there somewhere, and she inwardly cursed the fair skin that made even the slightest blush stand out like a beacon. Aloud, however, all she said was, "I guess time will show which of us is right." Flashing him a manufactured cocky grin, she shoved her feet into her shoes and got to her feet. "Well, I'm going to head up to the roof," she announced.

The abrupt change of subject seemed to throw him off. "Wait… why?"

"Just need to clear my head before I get back to work," she said, which was technically true. She was going to need a breather between laying the bait and springing the trap.

"Oh." He looked a bit at loose ends to have what, from his perspective, must have been shaping up to look like yet another spirited debate dropped before it had even gotten started… which was exactly what she had been trying to achieve.

* * *

The roof of the Daily Star building, standing forty stories from street level, was technically supposed to be off-limits to everyone but maintenance. However, between Dairine's friendly rapport with the custodial staff and a talent for lock-picking acquired during a childhood fascination with all things secret agent, she had found her way up to the gravel-coated rooftop more than a handful of times. She found it soothing to be up high, able to see the city sprawl and the motion in the streets that was still moving at a quick tempo even at this time of night, without having to be embroiled in it herself. The air was fresher up here, too, and as she leaned on the cement barrier next to a vent shaft and looked out over the flickering grid of lights below, she inhaled deeply, eyes sliding closed as she tried to pick up on the subtle scents riding the wind even so far above the streets. The sound of fabric snapping in the wind caught her attention, and her eyes opened sharply.

The Guarantor hovered in midair before her, long golden cape and trousers flapping in the warm air rising from ground level.

It was the closest she had been to him– in  _this_  form, at least– since he had pulled her and a dozen other people from the wreck of the capsized  _Del Sol_ , and she was surprised to see that he glowed in the dark. It wasn't vivid, just a subtle glow across his skin that she almost blamed on the reflection of city lights from his clothes before she realized the angles weren't right for that. He himself possessed some sort of inner radiance that was finding its way to the surface. Dairine couldn't help but stare.

When he stepped out of the air and down onto the rooftop, the glow flickered down to almost nothing, leaving him looking mostly ordinary, aside from the absurd costume. She let out a soft breath of relief, because standing around gaping at him was  _not_  going to help her accomplish what she'd come here to do.

"Fancy meeting you here, Guarantor," she said breezily.

He frowned. "I'm sure you're aware this is not a social call, Miss Callahan. I didn't come to trade witticisms."

Of course she did, but she wasn't going to make it that easy for him. "Enlighten me, then," she said. "What did you come here for?"

He crossed his arms sternly. "You've plastered quite a shock piece about me across the front page today. Are you really surprised that I've come to demand an explanation?"

"Oh, you mean like the one the people of the city have been demanding of you for over a month now and still haven't gotten?" she shot back.

That brought him up short, but he recovered quickly enough. "What I owe or do not owe the people of this city is irrelevant—"

"Is it?" she cut him off. "Because you present yourself as a hero, but you act suspicious, always leaving the scene of a rescue without talking to anyone, never explaining how you can do the things you do—"

"And why should I? I should think that letting my actions speak for me would suffice!"

Dairine rolled her eyes. "That is so typical of you," she huffed.

"And how would you know that?" he asked, suspicion alight in his flashing green eyes.

"Because you and I are a whole lot more alike than either of us would like to admit, Roshaun," she said bluntly, holding his gaze steadily.

It was interesting to watch that copper complexion go pale. "Roshaun?" he asked, and his confused tone would have been convincing if his expression weren't giving him away. "I'm afraid I don't—"

"Oh, don't even try that on me," Dairine said. "Your so-called 'disguise' might have thrown other people off your trail, but did you really think glasses and ugly t-shirts were going to work on  _me_?"

"Ugly t-shirts?" He looked astonished. "But… but these glasses are  _enchanted!_  No one should be able to see me for what I really am when I'm wearing them!"

Dairine's eyebrows went up at that. "Well, I guess that explains why none of our supposedly observant coworkers picked up on the obvious," she said. "I was beginning to worry about the future of the news industry in America if that was as perceptive as its reporters ever get."

The Guarantor– or rather, Roshaun– seemed to have more or less recovered from his shock, because he fixed her with a look that was more beady than bewildered, and said, "That still does not explain how  _you_  managed to see through the enchantment."

She snorted. "Oh please, did you really think you were the first superhuman type to walk the streets of New York? Just because the rest of us aren't dressed in glitter and putting on a big show for the evening news doesn't mean we're not around. There's not a spell or seeming in existence that I can't see right through."

He looked a bit gobsmacked again, but he was doing a better job of concealing his surprise now, which was a little disappointing. Dairine liked it when she got to see his genuine emotions on his face, rather than whatever carefully-crafted reaction he saw fit to present for public consumption.

"Remind me to ask you about that later," he remarked. "At present, though, I have to know, why confront me like this? Was all that downstairs–" His eyes widened as a thought occurred to him. " _Was that whole article just a ploy_?"

She shrugged. "What can I say? You're fun to mess with."

He looked outraged again. " _You defamed my character on the front page of the most popular daily paper in the country_!"

"Roshaun, chill. First of all, I didn't 'defame your character,' I publicly asked you to hold yourself accountable. Second of all, it's an easy fix. All you've gotta do is give me an interview, I write a big exposé on the Guarantor, real humanizing stuff–"

"While all but securing yourself a Pulitzer in the process."

"You can co-author if you want a share of the glory," she said cheekily.

He tried to glare, but it didn't have quite enough heat in it to be convincing. "And what do I get out of all this?" he asked dryly. "Aside from the opportunity to share your byline?"

"Well for one thing, the people you're trying so hard to protect might actually trust you. I wasn't kidding about that– you need a PR guy, stat, and I'm perfect for the job."

Roshaun eyed her thoughtfully for a moment, and she tried not to squirm under his intense gaze.

"I suppose I have no choice, do I?" he said eventually.

She leaned back against the low cement wall, one ankle crossed casually over the other. "Sure you do. We forget this whole conversation happened– as much as we can, anyway, now that certain cats have been let out of the bag– and go back to the status quo. You run around saving people and leaving the city in the dark about your origins and motivations, I get increasingly frustrated over it, and we wait for the whole thing to blow up."

"So really, I've got no choice," Roshaun repeated, smiling.

She matched his grin. "Don't expect me to go easy on you with the questions just because we're friends."

He looked at her with a strange expression. "Are we friends?" he asked.

"You tell me," she said, a challenge in her eye even as her pulse pounded out of rhythm.

After a long, thoughtful silence, he said, "I suppose we are friends, aren't we?"

"We sure as hell aren't enemies," she agreed. "But I wanna make one thing clear about this little arrangement of ours: I am  _not_  your plucky sidekick, alright? I've read that comic book, and I'm not interested. I've got enough 'special skills' of my own, natural and supernatural, so don't go thinking that just because you can fly, you've got the edge on me."

"Understood." He joined her in leaning against the ledge. "So," he said, after a moment's silence, "what do our loyal readers want to know?"

"First things first, where do your powers come from? Magic? Irradiated insect bite? Over-exposure to cosmic rays? Secretly an alien prince in exile?"

"Secretly an alien  _king_  in exile."

"...I was joking, but okay."

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks first and foremost to the ever-magnificent Professor Maka, the inimitable l0chn3ss, and the enthusiastic and splendiferous Ash, who were all wonderful enough to check my grammar and my diction on this despite not ~~yet~~ being familiar with the source material. Thanks second to Diane Duane, who I hope will never discover what I've done to her characters.


End file.
